Chapter Text
Copia came through the door like a storm trying very hard not to be one.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even remotely coordinated. The door barely opened at first, held back by the sheer volume of what he was carrying—bags of chocolate crinkling against each other, a pharmacy’s worth of pain relief tucked carefully into a paper sack, and an unruly stack of thick, fluffy blankets pressed against his chest like they were actively trying to escape. A heating pad dangled from his wrist, swinging gently as though it had already accepted the futility of the situation.
He shifted, muttering something under his breath in Italian that sounded like a negotiation with physics itself, then forced the door open wider with his shoulder.
That was when Mountain noticed.
He had been sitting comfortably just moments before, but the second Copia entered, his posture changed. He straightened slightly, head tilting as his attention locked onto the precarious pile of supplies.
“…Copia—”
The name came out soft, immediately concerned.
Copia froze mid-step.
“Ah. Hello,” he said quickly. “Greetings. Salutations. I am—how you say—arrived.”
Mountain was already moving, crossing the room in steady strides to help relieve the burden. The second he did, Copia visibly relaxed, air rushing out of him as the weight was redistributed.
“You didn’t have to carry all of that yourself,” Mountain said.
“Yes,” Copia replied, exhaling, “I did. There was no time for delegation. This was a mission of importance.”
Mountain set the bundles down carefully on a nearby surface, eyeing the growing collection of supplies.
Down the hall, Perpetua’s bedroom door remained closed.
Copia glanced toward the hallway, his expression tightening slightly.
“He is still in there,” he said quietly.
Mountain nodded. “Yeah. Storm’s with him.”
At that, Copia paused.
“Ah,” he said, softer.
Storm was steady in a way that made him feel like gravity—quiet, grounding, always close when he was needed. He didn’t overthink it. He just stayed.
Copia seemed to accept that immediately.
“Good,” he said. “That is good.”
Mountain gave him a sideways look. “You okay with that?”
Copia blinked. “Why would I not be?”
A beat.
Then Mountain added, “Some people don’t like sharing that space.”
Copia frowned slightly, like the idea didn’t even compute.
“He is my brother,” he said simply. “And Storm cares for him. That is… correct.”
Then, as if the matter was settled, he turned back to the supplies.
With careful precision, he began organizing them: blankets folded into stacks, chocolate sorted by type, pain relief lined neatly in rows, and the heating pad placed last like a centerpiece.
Down the hall, Perpetua’s bedroom door remained closed.
Inside was quiet—soft, steady, lived-in silence. Perpetua, Copia’s fraternal twin brother, was still resting. He’d been in and out of sleep most of the day, worn down enough that he’d stayed tucked away in his room with Storm keeping him company.